


This World Is Not Made For You

by AxMa



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, Bookstores, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-14 17:48:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9196676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxMa/pseuds/AxMa
Summary: Small Town AU where Eric's a town favourite who passes the days within the delighful realms of his bookshop and Dele wishes that he could simply run from his problems





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> Because this ship has consumed my life as of late, please, come and lament with me.
> 
> To clarify, the village featured in this piece (Hartshire- cause white HART lane- lel) does not actually exist. However, I have based it on the seaside town of Port Isaac in Cornwall- also known as Port Wenn for any Doc Martin fans out there!!
> 
> Anywho, please enjoy!! Feedback is very much welcome and would probably make my day xx

Dele had never been much of a fan of public transport. It wasn’t that he was suspicious of it and holding a deeply inhibiting fear of the grinding gears below the metal skeleton of the train carriage. No, it was nothing like that. It was more self-focused. The feeling that someone was always watching him, imploring his thoughts. He didn’t like the intrusion.

Dele shakes his head to himself, his paranoia-infused internal monologue at odds with the ‘chill vibes’ he prefers to exude. And, to his benefit, due to perfectly executed calculating of train carriage population, he only finds himself sharing the space with one other body.

Playing into the prying train culture Dele folds his body forward in an attempt to subtly eye his ‘companion’. His discretion proves unnecessary as he catches sight of the indisposed man, slumped in his chair, his chest rising and falling with harsh breaths. Dele cringes slightly at the sight before choosing to cast his gaze to the more pleasant views lying beyond the confines of the carriage.

True to the English countryside cliché the hills roll and the pastures are green and it almost makes Dele’s heart ache with its comfortable beauty. His fingertips dance softly upon the frosted, train window. Their path traces hill and dale, Dele’s hand floating high and low across the expanse of the window in gentle rhythm. It’s effective in the way in which it distracts him, the scenery outside ever-changing, eventually transforming into the roughly, torn sandstone of a subdued station.

The locomotive rolls to a halt with a disturbingly high screech of its engine. Dele sighs into the open space, standing stiffly, his feet numb from lack of use. Delving around for his satchel and duffle bag he side-steps down the aisle, passing by the near-comatose drunkard. He wavers, once more eyeing the sleeping figure. He feels an odd sense of responsibility for the man’s wellbeing, knowing his conscience will be tainted if he makes no effort at all to wake him. His hand hovers above the figure briefly, caught between a desire to help, but, not to disturb. His rationality soon diminishes his over-zealous thought process and he taps the man lightly.

_\- Hmf_

The man blinks up at him with tired, annoyance inherent in his eyes.  

“Sorry sir, but, the train’s arrived,” Dele clarifies his intentions before nodding at the man and making way of the carriage, choosing not to outstay his welcome. He had learnt not to trust those with skewed limits, like blurred lines. They were just too hard to figure out.

Dele’s mind clears a bit as he steps off the carriage, the cool, coastal air biting at his face ravenously. The train station is shadowed and dark, and yet, when he checks his watch in curiosity it reads;

_14:48_

Ok then. He shrugs to himself, wandering slowly along the platform, trying to balance along the stark cautionary line dotted just near the edge of the concrete surface.

“You got a death wish?”

Dele whips his head around so fast he nearly does find himself tumbling onto the nearby tracks.

“Or maybe you just want whiplash then.”

Dele has to collect himself, the train trip starving him of real human interaction (he chooses not to include the drunkard under the branch of humanity). His eyes meet that of a man, surely not too much older than himself. He’s tall and broad with shining, blue, hazy eyes which match the almost sleepy drawl of his voice.  The man raises his eyebrows in an imploring manner. Dele snaps back into human function, “Well maybe both then,” he replies, choosing humour as his desired route of interaction.

The man keeps his eyebrows raise and, for a moment, Dele thinks he’s really blown it, images of spending the night in the local provincial jail filling his mind and, my, that would be some type of a welcome to town.  Dele chews his bottom lip nervously and it’s like a trigger. The man’s eyes crinkle beneath his brows as he lets out a deep chuckle. Dele tries not to sigh too loudly, rubbing his neck in an action of relief (or perhaps to soothe the newly bloomed crick in his neck).

“You’re not too far off then,” the stranger replies with a jovial smirk, his hand clutched around the think handles of a canvas bag. Dele becomes distracted with watching it swing back and forth as the stranger descends down the train station steps.

“But really though-’’ Dele quickly switches his gaze from the man’s overfilled bag to meet his face as he speaks. “Take care. The funeral parlours a bit run out at the moment,” the man finishes with an almost disconcerting amount of casual charisma as he turns round the corner.  

Dele remains, watching, from the top of the staircase, most probably appearing as a smiling fool as he grins into the expanse of chilly air.

“Eh boy, you followin’ me or something?”

Dele smells his intoxicated acquaintance before he sees him, his smile refusing to subside, despite the foul stench of old cigarettes and cheap whiskey.

“And why you smilin’ like a fool? Youth these days,” the drunkard mutters as he clambers down the staircase. Dele follows the figure, his eyes widening, somewhat relieved to see that the man was indeed able to rouse himself and tumble of the locomotive.

It’s peculiar, Dele thinks, as he himself steps down the staircase. Barely five minutes in town and he’s already facing that hurt-thrumming pang of invested familiarity.  He hums under his breath at the thought, his satchel tapping against his thigh in comfortable rhythm.

As though, for once, everything in his life were at ease.


	2. 2.

A feeling of supreme comfort can only last so long and it rings true in Dele’s mind as he steps into the street, beyond the train station complex. At this stage he knows he should be used to the fickle, British weather and yet he finds himself cursing the sky as fat droplets of rain land over the expanse of his body. “Shit, shit, shit,” he sings under his breath as he scrambles around in the flap of his satchel, desperately searching for an umbrella. With luck running out, he pushes the zip of his duffle bag along, continuing the search for the desirable item. At this stage he was beginning to believe that his luck truly was gone. No umbrella in sight (and he certainly didn’t have a raincoat either, for reasons of fashion, he justifies).

Hunching into the comfort of his steadily, soaking sweater Dele crowds his bags to his sides in the feeble hope of keeping them somewhat dry as he embarks on his journey into town. Hartshire, the small seaside town suddenly seems far less appealing from Dele’s view as he tries not to slip along the wet expanse of the pavement.  He’s shivering as he starts down the hill, his expression one of extreme pathos which would make the sheets of rain falling, freeze.  A flock of cattle crow from his side,

“Oh sod off! I’m cold too but I ain’t moaning about it,” he scolds the cattle. They stare back at him dumbly. “Bloody hell,” he sighs, wiping his face with his sweater paw.

“So you fancy abusing animals too?”

Dele turns around slowly, recognising the voice. “To be fair, they started it,” he reasons, scrabbling to find good humour amongst the setting of an extreme soaking.

“Tit for tat, then,” the man laughs back, taking in the sorry sight of Dele, against a backdrop of torrential rain and sorry looking cattle, an extreme contrast to the comfortable heat found in his, admittedly run-down, truck.

“Well, I wouldn’t be a good citizen if I let you abuse these poor folk any longer,” the man continues, gesturing at the cows.

“So, you better get in,” he finishes, patting the dry car seat next to him. Dele calculates the man for a moment.

“Or you can continue your quest to catch a cold,” the man speaks in response to Dele’s silence. Dele turns around quickly, facing the cattle once more. He nods his head at them, in some sort of gesture of making amends before flashing a bright smile to the driver. He scrambles quickly from there, skirting around the car, hand clutching the handle of the door before bundling himself into the dry, security of the vehicle.

“Cheers,” Dele breathes out into the warm space, dropping his bags at his feet. He hears the engine thrum and the gentle rock of the car starting up beneath him, feeling thankful for engineering and kind strangers.

“You headed into town?” The silence is broken by the kindly driver.  Dele nods in response,

“Yeah, and you?” he asks, trying to encourage the natural flow of conversation. The man beside him raises an eyebrow and turns to eye Dele.

“Well, I was actually just looking for poor, sodden citizens to lure into my torture chamber.”

Dele’s eyes widen for a moment, his hand inching towards the car door, as if ready to commando roll out of the moving car in escape.  Luckily, he does not execute this move as his mind catches up to him, realising that the stranger was in fact joking. Dele laughs awkwardly, trying not to seem too serious. The man beside him shakes his head with a wry chuckle.

“Seeing as you’re frequenting my path of travel, what’s your name,” the driver asks him.

“Umm, yeah sorry. I’m Dele,” he says offering a hand for the man to shake before realising that his grip is otherwise occupied on the steering wheel.

“And you are?” Dele implores.

“Eric. Eric, Dier,” the man, or Eric, clarifies with a somewhat, self-conscious smile.

“Well, that saves me from calling you ‘kind stranger’,” Dele muses and the blonde-haired man laughs in response.

“Yeah, a regular Florence Nightingale I am,” he replies with beautifully natural charisma.

“So, how on Earth did you manage to stay dry? Did the walk to your car not catch you out?” Dele asks, eyeing the sweatshirt Eric is wearing, which has somehow managed to stay fully dry

“As much as I’d like to say the answer to my dry state is common witchcraft and wizardry I instead, regret to inform you, that the rain started mere minutes after I left the station. You, however, were doomed from the start, cursed to walk the Earth in rain,” Eric laments poetically and it would almost be absurd if Dele weren’t so enraptured by it.

“That’s why I was sort of rushing by the way,” Eric clarifies and Dele nods in understanding.

“Always useful to check the weather app then, eh,” Dele says with a self-deprecating laugh.

“Yes my friend, that would be a smart thing to do,” Eric laughs with a shake of his head. The rest of the trip into town is mostly silent, save for Dele remarking about aspects of the landscape as though Eric hadn’t been living in Hartshire for a fair portion of his life.

Approaching the outskirts of town, Eric turns to him.  “So, without me sounding like a stalker, where are you staying?” Dele chews his lip for a moment,

“Probably just a Bed and Breakfast for the time being, while I find something more permanent,” he answers, trying not to sound like an ignorant outsider. Eric’s eyebrows hike up in a way which Dele has already become quite accustomed to. It means he’s plotting something.

“Well I guess I could let you be a wayward traveller or I could offer you a more… enduring fixture,” Eric proposes in a leading tone. They’re passing through the town slowly, Dele struggling to familiarise himself with his new surroundings as his focus remains on Eric.

“And what would this entail?” Dele asks, curiosity peaking. Eric’s hands glide softly over the steering wheel as he navigates the winding streets. He waits a moment to answer,

“Let’s say, 200 pounds a week rent and healthy, open-mindedness towards literature.” It’s an easy offer to accept and Dele finds himself eagerly shaking his head in approval.

“Well aren’t I a Good Samaritan!” Eric states and Dele can’t testify against that fact. At this stage he’s seriously considering erecting a statue in honour of his new acquaintance. Perhaps out of sandstone, he thinks as he gazes out the vehicles window, greeted with an abundance of the material along every street. That is, until the truck rolls to a stop.

Dele shifts his view, glancing instead along the lane at the neat row of shops lining the cobbled path. It’s cute, he decides, nodding in approval.

“Well, here you go,” Eric breaks Dele’s thought process with a gesture to the line of stores. Dele goes to fix him with a questioning look but Eric has already escaped the entrapment of the vehicle and is soon popping up outside one of the store windows. The broad, blonde boy turns to face the truck, motioning Dele over with a sly tip of his head. Obediently, Dele follows.

The rain seems to have stopped, Dele notes as he dances around a rather large puddle formed in the crack of the cobbles. The distinct chimes of a store entry sound and Dele follows Eric’s figure as he passes through the slim, panelled door. Dele bustles in closely behind him, met with the musty scent of aged parchment and pages.

_Open-mindedness towards literature_

He repeats the statement in his head as he glances around the space. It’s comfortably, small and adorned by text. Bookshelves line the walls, their bodies reaching up to the peeling, paint on the ceiling.

“Welcome to my haven.”

Dele glances at Eric as he lovingly cradles a hard-backed atlas before leaning high to place it on a nearby shelf. Dele doesn’t know quite what to say, still stuck in a mode of minor confusion and self-consciousness.  Eric however, is most at ease, opening the handles of his canvas bag to scoop out a hefty pile of books.

“Was in Plymouth this morning, picking up some new covers,” the enamoured, blonde tells Dele with a glint in his eye. “Local book club is eager for some fresh reads.” The man bunches some texts together, placing them behind the small, cashiers-desk in the corner of the book store.

“Shall I show you your room then,” Eric blindly offers as he finishes his placement of the remainder of his new books. Dele spies a small staircase to his right, moving back to let Eric pass before him up the flight.

“So, this your bookshop then?” Dele asks as he climbs up behind Eric, who lets of a sound of acceptance as he reaches the landing. There lies a dim corridor which Dele assumes leads to his new abode.

“I’ve been looking for someone to take this space for an age,” Eric laments as he fishes a key from his pocket.

“No-one new ever seems to really stay in this town,” he justifies as unlocks the door with careful hands.

“Bem-vindo,” he then exclaims with a sarcastic, flourish of his hands. Dele steps onto the hardwood floors of his new home. It’s dark and cramped but Dele can’t stop the thought that it’s his home.

“A bit small but-’’

“It’s brilliant. Really, top of the table,” Dele reassures Eric with a pat on his shoulder.

“How about I let you get settled, I’ve got some shelves to restack,” the blonde murmurs out, trying to seem as unobtrusive as possible, despite the fact that his presence signifies his kindliness.  Dele fishes for the man’s wrist before he can leave, his fingers grasping onto Eric’s warmed flesh, thumb pressing lightly along his pulse-point.

“Thank you,” he tells him with bountiful sincerity, his chocolate orbs connecting with Eric’s ocean blue to convey his appreciation. His tall acquaintance nods bashfully,

“Welcome to the Hartshire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've enjoyed this new instalment. Kudos and comments are much appreciated xx


	3. Chapter 3

With Eric tottering around the shop downstairs, Dele is left to his own accord. He doesn’t have much to unpack, merely has to hang up his variety of ripped jeans and an assortment of jackets and coats (knowing he’ll very much be needing them with the coastal breeze he’s feels pouring through the window). He carefully folds his shirts, bundles his socks and jocks into a discrete draw and then that’s his clothing done, his duffle bag nearly fully unloaded, spare a bunch of bedding and miscellaneous items.

He always found it a struggle to make his bed, the stuffing of his duvet a tiring process which nearly prompts him to call downstairs for help. He clenches his mouth closed quickly, not wanting to pry upon Eric any more than he already has. It turns out to be for the best as Dele gets well needed practice of properly making a bed, even taking time to carefully smooth down the creases in his sheets, as though he were a maid at a fancy hotel.  

He doesn’t know quite what to do after that, it’s not like he came prepared to overhaul a whole interior. So, instead, he sits. To be fair, the view from his living room is more than entertaining. He’s able to see the light, hum of town folk, pottering along the cobbled streets and if he cranes his neck, just slightly, he can even spot the aquamarine, tumbling of waves onto the pebbled shore. He gets caught in their rhythm. The tug of the water, to and fro, continuous and yet disjointed. He stares long enough he could swear he witnesses high tide turn to low, but, perhaps he’s just trying to project a mood of abnormality and spectacle.  Or, maybe he’s trying to use it as some sort of a measure of time, desperately trying to justify whether it’s decent to head down to the bookshop or if he’ll just appear desperate. Dele thinks for a moment. Is it even possible to appear desperate in a small town like this? He decides, no.

And that’s how he finds himself, closing the door to his abode, creeping across the landing and trying, with all his power, not to tumble down the narrow staircase leading to Eric’s haven of literature. Sadly, his hope for a casual and quiet appearance is counteracted by the sharp creaking of the staircase,

“Finished unpacking already?” Eric appears, at Dele’s side, as though by teleportation. He looks somewhat impressed by Dele’s efficiency. Dele, however, is not impressed with himself. Finished unpacking _already._ Between his prompt reappearances and inability to withstand the changing weather conditions he deduces that he’s blown about every chance he had of appearing ‘chill’.

“I didn’t have much to unload, really,” Dele justifies, his brown orbs shifting nervously under Eric’s intense gaze. Eric studies him for a moment, his eyes drifting upon the length of Dele’s body, as though summing him up. Dele almost welcomes it. It’s the least he should expect, he decides.

“Well, that’s lucky then,” Eric’s scrutiny of Dele has obviously ceased and yet the shorter boy remains distracted in a constantly, whirling thought process.

“Hmm?” He drawls out, trying to regain a grasp on Eric’s train of thought.

“It’s lucky you didn’t have much to unpack, because, I do.” That’s when Dele clicks. Eric’s asking him for help. He practically leaps at the opportunity to seem mildly useful.

“Yes, of course,” He snaps back into reality, shooting an awkward thumbs up towards Eric, who simply laughs as he leads the way through the small, shop. Dele feels somewhat ‘sheep-like’ following dependently behind the taller man.

“Mind your head,” Eric drawls as he leads the way, tapping the ridge of the ceiling as it lowers into the dimly lit crevasse of a backroom.  

“Is this your torture chamber then?” Dele taunts for levity and he hears the reluctantly, amused huff of Eric’s laugh.

“I actually call this the incubator,” the blonde man states as he dodges around overflowing, boxes of books. Dele pulls a face,

“Mate, you have to admit, that’s pretty ominous,” he tells him, the taller man simply smirking proudly before patting a particularly large box on its hypothetical head.

“It’s where I look after my babies, before they hit the shelves.” Dele almost feels as though he’s intruding on a private moment, Eric appearing as a proud father as he looks out amongst the stacks of book covers, surrounding him.

“Well, are you gonna be of any use then?” The apparent ‘book-worm’ asks as he squats down to lift a box. Dele stutters a ‘yes’ out under his breath as Eric gestures to a distant pile of books. Dele bundles them up, trying to treat them with the ‘love’ and ‘respect’ which Eric clearly believes they deserve. Again, he follows the man blindly out of the room, back into the crowded expanse of the main shop space.   He stands there dumbly for a second, unsure of what to do. The feeling of uselessness grows as Eric gracefully mounts a nearby ladder, carefully climbing the rungs to reach the top shelves of books. The man turns around, his hip resting casually against the climbing apparatus as he addresses Dele,

“I’ll save you the climb, just pass me those books though, eh.” Dele nods swiftly before taking his post in Eric’s chain of production. He has to lean up slightly, to reach the taller man’s hand as he grasps for the book to place. Their fingers brush, lightly, over the cover of the books, and Dele tries not to shudder at the contact. Eric’s touch is warm, like the home-style comfort of a toasty fireplace in the winter. It’s almost disconcerting, Dele thinks, the way in which he’s so quickly garnered a familiarity in Dele’s life. He chooses not to think about it too critically, saves himself the energy (and self-discipline). Clearing his throat, Dele builds up the courage to breach the quiet of the bookstore,

“So, why didn’t you take the space above the store?” It’s a question which has been on his mind for a fair while, it’s not like the apartment above the shop is complete squalor, and he can’t quite think of a reason why Eric wouldn’t have adopted it for himself.

“Ah, good question,” the blonde man smiles down at him. “I like to think of it as separation of church and state,” Eric states with a wry smile, obviously amused by his own explanation. “If I lived up there, I would never leave this little block. I’d be forever within the company of literature.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Dele pipes up,

“Yeah but then I wouldn’t meet anyone,” the taller man justifies as he lightly taps the spine of a book, slotting it into a narrow space. He turns on the ladder, elbows resting against the hard, wooden rungs.

“I wouldn’t have met you.” He stares down at Dele. His mouth turns upwards in a smirk and Dele decides that Eric must be aiming for irony and yet, the man’s blue eyes flash with a sincerity which writes a contradictory story. The man laughs as he swings back around on the ladder, “It’s getting emotional,” he rubs at his eyes, committing to his role of faux sensitivity.

Their chain of work continues; Dele passes up the book, Eric grasps the book, Dele watches as Eric somehow finds a space to slot the book, Dele passes up another book, and so the cycle continues. They make small talk, Eric yabbering on about the ‘fantastic local brewery’ and Dele humming sounds of approval under his breath. It’s casual, for a while.

“Why you in Hartshire?” Eric asks as he places leans down to receive a book from Dele. The shorter man tries not to blanche, thinking carefully about a convincing reason as to why one would turn up in a small, seaside town.

“Would it be clichéd if I told you I broke up with my girlfriend?” He decides on. Eric scoffs as he slots the book into place,

“What, and you need a retreat?” He asks. Dele mocks offense,

“What! It’s a hard time,” he justifies, his mouth turning pouty as though to emphasise his point.

“Ok, ok,” Eric drawls, lifting his hands in defence, “But, yes, it is a bit of a cliché.”

“How so!” Dele bites out, walking the line of inquisitiveness and pseudo vulnerability.

“Let’s just say, I’ve seen that plot in one too many teen novels,” the blonde man chuckles as he descends the ladder, no more books to place.

“Oh, sod off you wanker,” Dele rolls his eyes before administrating a sharp jab to Eric arm.

“ _Ow!_ Why’re you so offended anyway,” his counterpart questions briskly.

“Maybe I’m just a sensitive guy,” Dele squares up and Eric inserts his signature eyebrow raise, as though summing up the entirety of Dele’s being.

“Well-’’ The taller man starts, his voice low and gravely as he plucks small specks of dust of his oversized knit.

“I’m beginning to think you’re a man of many mysteries.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to add kudo's and comments- I very much appreciate them xx


	4. Chapter 4

Dele wakes the next day, groggy, so much so that he abruptly forgets his whereabouts and instead prepares to fight his apparent abductor. Leaping out from his cosy sheets he nearly trips over a wayward shoe, left lying haphazardly on the hardwood floors. _Jesus,_ he huffs to himself suddenly remembering not only his whereabouts but also a distinct memory of having been far too tired to properly put away his clothing. Not that the previous day had been physically draining or even socially tiring (he really was enjoying Eric’s company, despite his own associated nerves) it was rather the strain of adaptation to his new setting.  

Deciding to conquer his surroundings, Dele grasps hold of the skimpy, stained lace curtains, throwing them open to reveal the unrivalled crystal, aquamarine of the waterfront. He couldn’t deny that, that would be a view he would shortly grow happily accustomed to.

Running through the morning’s acts of decency Dele finds himself showered, dressed and ready to play the role of ‘new to town charmer’. He’s hungry and there’s no food in the apartment which he decides is a perfect avenue by which to bond with the town locals as he sets out in search of breakfast. Locking up his apartment eagerly, Dele tries to ignore the emptiness in his stomach as he climbs down the steep staircase into the bookshop area. He sees the distinct flash of golden locks as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Eric bustling around busily, his arms adorned with books.

“Morning,” Dele chimes out, watching with great amusement as Eric startles, nearly dropping his stack of books.

“Geez, kill a man why don’t you,” the blonde says as he lowers the books onto a side table before clutching his heart dramatically.

“There’s the jolly greeting I was hoping for,” Dele drawls sarcastically and Eric rolls his eyes in petulance.

“Good morning,” Dele smiles as the taller man murmurs under his breath.

“Where you headed?”

“Out for a nifty breakfast,” Dele replies, patting his stomach to indicate just a fraction of his hunger.

“Ah, I like your work.   _Sunny’s_ is good, it’s about two streets back, if you don’t mind climbing a bit of a hill to get there. It’s well worth it.” Dele listens intently at the man’s local knowledge before nodding eagerly.

“I could do with a walk, so it’s a win, win,” he answers, hopping energetically from his right to left.

“I’ll let you go then, wouldn’t want to hold you back,” the blonde man laughs as he takes in Dele’s playful form.

“Cheers mate. See you round’,” Dele replies with a salute as he wanders out the store. He heads up the advised hill, taking in his surrounding, reminding himself that this is only the second time he’s been outside the bookshop/apartment space. _I am turning into a hermit_ Dele scolds himself as he bundles his hands into his pockets, his legs straining slightly at the hills incline. The streets are fairly empty, which Dele decides to equate to the town’s small population. Although, in checking his watch he’s beginning to wonder if maybe it’s just because everyone is at work, the streets no longer littered with school kids and their working parents.

He decides to consider that thought pattern later as he arrives at his desired destination. While the town is small, Dele applauds himself for his accurate navigation.   _Sunny’s_ is your typical, hole in the wall style café, creepers intermingling with its stone foundation, cobwebs and light frost sweeping across the windows. Dele is relieved to find that, despite its slightly dishevelled exterior, the café is cosy and warm inside. A fire place roars in the corner, the floor space accompanied by neat, wooden chairs and tables, their surfaces adorned with a freshly picked assortment of flowers.  

Dele finds a counter space, adjoined to the cashier and coffee machine area, given his solitude deciding that occupying a whole table may serve as a mild inconvenience. Swinging his legs up, he perches on the high, bar-style stools quickly nipping a menu to scan the offering. Eric’s right, he decides, finding himself tempted by an array of items off the menu.

“Oh, hello!” Dele is interrupted from his decisional dilemma.  Looking up he’s greeted with the joyful, beam of gangly man, an apron tied carefully around his body.

“Hey,” Dele offers, “Great menu.”

“Thank you very much. You’re new here?” The man questions, his accent a strange mixture of British, German and something Asiatic. Dele nods,

“Arrived yesterday.”

“Oh no, you must have been caught in the rain,”

“Yeah, I was saved by one of your fellow locals,” Dele laughs out and he sees the waiter’s eyes narrow in thought, as though he was trying to guess who might have been Dele’s saviour.

“Which one, there’s more of them than you think,” the man laughs out.

“Eric… you know tall, blonde-’’

“Bookshop Eric!” the man interrupts with a gleeful smile.

“Yeah…” Dele drawls out.

“So he’s being nice for once,” the worker laughs out, his chuckle high and contagious.

“I’ll pass that on,” Dele tells him.

“Wouldn’t be the first time he’s heard it,” the man starts before pausing slightly and changing his direction, “I’ve been very inhospitable. What would you like to order?” Dele scans the menu once more,

“Full English and a black coffee, thanks,” he relays, deciding to be decadent. The waiter nods his head before bouncing over to the kitchen insert, to where Dele presumes his order will be filtered. Drumming his fingers against the lacquered surface of the counter, Dele tries not to seem too bored. He fails.

“I’m Sonny by the way,” the waiter jumps back into his line of vision, as though trying to occupy Dele. 

“Oh,”

“Yeah, you see now. I am Sonny, this café is _Sunny’s_. Funny isn’t it?” the energetic Sonny clarifies as Dele begins to put two and two together.

“Great name,” he praises the man.

“I arrived here, 2015. Thought the town could do with some more sun,” he jokes with a beaming smile.

“Where were you before,” Dele asks, curious.

“Leverkusen, Germany. Wasn’t very sunny there either.”

“I can imagine,” Dele tells him with a smile.

“So you haven’t been here long at all then,” Dele probes and Sonny shakes his head, his smile never leaving his face.

“No, but it’s easy to feel like you’ve been here all your life. It’s the people,” the man tells him,

Dele hums lazily in reply, somewhat sceptical yet still appreciative of the eager cafe owners sentiment. 

"You'll settle in in no time... I promise."

Dele shoots the man a thankful smile.

"Plus, you've already managed to coax Eric away from his usual grumpy disposition. You're practically a local!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for Eric's Bookshop:  
>    
> 
> 
> Inspiration for Sonny's Cafe:
> 
>  
> 
> Feel free to add Kudo's and Comments xxxx


End file.
